The girl. The bike. The trip so far.

Rick KoganCHICAGO TRIBUNE

ou can go a long time in life without meeting a woman boxer.

Well, she's not really a boxer any longer. She gave that up more than a decade ago, but she still loves the sport and teaches it to children in a gym in the West Loop. She only does this one afternoon a week because she is very busy running the two businesses she owns.

One of them, the latest one, is just what its name states: Chicago Motorcycle Rental.

The other, which she started nine years ago when she was only 24, is Motorcycle Riding'scool (with a clever word play on "school"). For the last year she also has been busy traveling to military bases across the country, where she spends anywhere from one day to two weeks instructing and certifying instructors so that they can then conduct motorcycle-riding classes on the bases.

So as you sit and wait to meet this woman and contemplate how even more unusual is the female boxer-biker-who-teaches-soldiers, your mind unavoidably fills with images of the unfortunate caricature or stereotype sort.

Eventually, she arrives, walking into the downtown restaurant shortly before the sun has dipped under the buildings to the west.

First of all -- and first impressions almost always being physical -- she looks like a movie star, a fact that does not go unnoticed by the dozen or so men in the restaurant, who turn from their drinks and meals and conversations like a bunch of cats might at the sight of a bird.

he is dressed in leather and carries a large, full-face motorcycle helmet. She notices you looking at the helmet as she puts it down on a chair and says, "Everyone who rides a motorcycle should wear one of these. We are responsible for our own safety. We have to make ourselves as visible as possible, with helmets and bright clothing. There aren't as many motorcycle accidents in Europe because motorcycles are more prevalent. Motorists know to look out for them.

"My philosophy it to save people from themselves, to help them understand the machine," she says. "There is a great freedom in riding a bike, and great joy in knowing how to do it safely."

By now Sarah Lahalih is sitting down and telling you that since opening her school -- it was the first privately licensed motorcycle training and safety program in the state -- she has taught more than 6,000 people safe riding.

"It is difficult to run a seasonal business," she says. "Chicago weather isn't always willing to cooperate. But it is so rewarding to know that my students are out there, riding responsibly. Ninety percent of riders get no formal training at all. Think about that."

With another season in full swing, it seemed like a good time to catch up with Lahalih. Though other private schools have sprouted since she began hers in 2000 (the offices and classroom are at 1400 N. Halsted St., and lesson are given in the United Center parking lot), Lahalih's business has benefited not only from being the first and best-known but also from an increase in the number of motorcycle riders, especially women, many of them born of the frustrations caused by the economy, high gas prices and city traffic.

"It's cheaper and easier to zip around town on two wheels instead of four," Lahalih says. "Bikes are more fuel-efficient than cars and cost less to purchase. And I think women have grown tired of riding on the back of their boyfriends' or husbands' bikes."

She orders a club soda (she will have an occasional wine) and says, "I really feel very fortunate to be where I am right now. I could never have imagined where my passion for two wheels would take me."

She has ridden and raced motorcycles all over the United States and various places around the globe. She has met, and been hugged by, such famous motorcycle enthusiasts as Michael Jordan, Vice President Joe Biden and Brad Pitt.

"I will never forget meeting her," says Mark Doyle, a businessman and entrepreneur who, during the recent election season, served as traveling political director for Biden.

"About three years ago a mutual friend thought I might be able to give her some business advice. I didn't know what to expect. You know, there are certain images that come to mind when you think of the woman biker. I don't want to say I was stunned, exactly, but rather surprised. She's beautiful, yes, but that doesn't overshadow how smart, authentic and grounded she is."

Lahalih wears her accomplishments lightly, an ego triumph of sorts, especially because they are of the do-it-yourself kind made to be trumpeted.

Her best friend, Katalin Rodriguez Ogren, understands this, and more: "Yes, expectations. Well, there is certainly nothing butchy about her. Neither is she the hot chick on a bike. Sarah has never had a chip on her shoulder, never arrogant. She could be. She is one of the most credentialed people in her field.

"And she has never tried to take advantage of, well, her obvious appeal. There have been many opportunities for exploitation. She has never done that, and I don't expect she ever will."

Rodriguez Ogren would know, having also succeeded in a predominantly male realm.

Married to a fourth-generation Chicago firefighter, she is the mother of two young children and the owner of POW! -- a combative-sports training center and mixed martial arts school in the West Loop where Lahalih teaches kids to box.

Rodriguez Ogren first met Lahalih when she enrolled at the riding school. But she already knew about her. "This can be a relatively small town, especially when it comes to women doing well in certain fields," she says. "I first heard of 'Sarah the boxer' and then 'Sarah the motorcycle girl.'"

Lahalih was born the third of the four children of Idris and Diane Lahalih and grew up in a modest house on the Northwest Side, a short walk from Lane Tech High School.

"We had a great and happy childhood," says Mike Lahalih, two years older than his sister and the owner of Valet Descartes, a parking service with restaurant and business clients in the South and West Loop. "We certainly were taught about responsibility, but my memories are of fun."

Their father had come to Chicago as an 18-year-old Palestinian immigrant to enroll in the University of Illinois at Chicago, then located at Navy Pier. While waiting and busing tables at the Three Arts Club, he earned an engineering degree from the Illinois Institute of Technology and began his 30-year-long career with the Water Reclamation Department. He met and married Diane, originally from Traverse City, Mich., in 1965. Their first child, Lila, was born the next year and then, in relatively rapid succession a decade later, came Mike, Sarah and Michelle.

"Of course, we are proud of Sarah," says Diane Lahalih. "But we are proud of all our children."

"You try to lead by example," says Idris Lahalih. "You try to show them by the ways you act and speak and behave. That is the best that you can do."

"You just never know if they are paying attention," says Diane Lahalih.

The kids attended nearby Alexander Graham Bell grammar school, renowned for its programs for the hearing-impaired and those with other disabilities.

"I had so many friends who were hearing-impaired that I learned to sign and actually thought about pursuing that as a career," Sarah says. In what would become a typical pattern of "why do it when you can do more," she embellished her grammar school signing classes by attending more classes at the Chicago Hearing Society.

"I think I paid for that with my baby-sitting money," she says. "I don't ever remember not working. Baby-sitting was the start, but there was always something. The value of work was instilled in us."

Every Saturday, her father would take Sarah and her siblings -- the older sister was out of the house by then -- to the neighborhood bank to deposit whatever money they had earned with their part-time jobs.

"There was a real kick seeing those passbooks and the numbers getting bigger," says Mike. "My father also used to take me to the bank every month when he paid the mortgage. We were not a wealthy family, but that was a valuable lesson."

It was, however, a worldly family, often traveling to the Middle East or South America or hosting visiting relatives for long stretches.

"The more you see of the world, the more you will understand people," says Idris Lahalih.

When Sarah Lahalih was 17 she was working weekends in the Chernin's Shoe Outlet that used to sit on Halsted Street north of Diversey. She noticed a sign in the health club next door. It was a photo of a woman in boxing gloves and said that women could get lessons in "the manly art" for $5.

"I hated boxing, saw it as two people in a ring trying to kill each other; but a friend and I thought, 'Well, if we don't have to hit anybody, maybe this would be a great way to stay in shape,'" says Lahalih, who was something of a self-described tomboy in high school, playing softball and tennis and partaking of rock climbing, sky diving and bungee jumping. "I did it, and it was fun, but in just a couple of months our instructor came in all excited because women were going to be allowed to fight in the Golden Gloves for the first time."

Federal court challenges had forced amateur boxing to open its ranks to women, and Lahalih became one of the nine members of the Chicago Fitness Center's Tough Enough boxing program, one of 30 women in the area aiming to be the first to fight in the Golden Gloves.

Her first bout took place in February 1994 at St. Andrew's gym, at Addison and Paulina Streets, not far from her home.

"I had told my sister and brother about my boxing, but not my parents, no way," Lahalih says. "There are just certain things that are expected of a daughter. Boxing would probably not be anywhere on that list."

How did she do?

The Tribune's Bob Sakamoto was there and wrote, "One of the most exciting bouts in this year's Golden Gloves tournament also turned out to be the most controversial Wednesday. ... From the moment Keshia Watson opened the 130-pound women's novice fight with a takedown that would have done wrestling legend Dan Gable proud, Sarah Lahalih knew she was in for a brawl. It was a two-round punchfest with nothing but relentless leather-in-your-face flurries. Suddenly, before the bell sounded for the third and final round, the referee signaled it was over and awarded the victory to Lahalih."

After the victory, Lahalih told Sakamoto, "My parents don't know [that I am boxing], and they won't if I have anything to do with it."

Talking to a reporter is not the best way to keep a secret.

The next day, a co-worker showed her father the paper.

"I didn't know you had a champion boxer daughter," the man said.

"Neither did I," said Idris Lahalih.

Recalling the ensuing conversation at home, Diane Lahalih says, "Let's just say Sarah has never taken no for an answer."

After winning the lightweight title in 1994 and finishing second the next year, Lahalih in 1996 was the only one left from her original team. The others had quit. She was then training with Danny Nieves at the Hamlin Park boxing club.

A former amateur heavyweight champion who fought briefly as a pro, Nieves had initially opposed women boxing. "I thought that girls weren't tough enough, physically or mentally," he told the Tribune's Michael Hirsley. "[When Sarah] showed up I told her I only train real fighters. She said she was one. I took her in the ring and told her if she could even hit me, I'd train her. She got in and landed a couple of punches."

She fought in the 1996 Golden Gloves. She was 19 and wore red boxing gloves. Her opponent, 16-year-old Park Ridge high school sophomore Melissa Vensas, wore blue.

Before the fight, Lahalih told Hirsley: "When I get in the ring, everything else disappears, even the crowd. I don't feel pain when I get hit, although I've had headaches an hour later. The strangest thing is, you can really like someone and get in the ring against that person and really want to hurt them. If you knock them down, it's better. If they bleed, it's even better. And then, you can be friends again after it's over."

Lahalih lost that fight, the five judges giving it to Vensas 3-2.

A few minutes later, up in the bleachers, where her mother had been videotaping the bout, father and daughter had a short conversation. He had never before seen her fight.

"Sorry you had to see that, Dad."

"Sarah, maybe I jinxed you."

"No, I'm glad you came."

Sarah continued to box and train for a while longer. "There really wasn't anybody to fight or train with. I was too experienced to be a good match for the new girls." Practicing and sparring against men, she won her weight division again in the 1997 Golden Gloves, but lost in the nationals in 1998.

"I was in college. The only option was to turn professional, and that wasn't for me. My father always wanted me to be a journalist. He thought that I could be an anchorwoman. I never even toyed with that. Anchorwoman may not be the best job for someone who is camera-shy."

She left Northeastern University, where she had been pursuing a degree in special education, and transferred to Roosevelt University, where she studied hospitality and tourism management.

"I was still volunteering for the hearing-impaired. I just didn't like the curriculum. I wanted to try something else," she says. "I still volunteer, and one of my dreams is to one day sign the national anthem at Wrigley Field."

While at Roosevelt, she continued to work such part-time jobs as teller at the neighborhood bank and to tackle many unpaid internships. One of them was with the public-relations firm of Jasculca-Terman. There she met Jerry Roper, the president of the Chicagoland Chamber of Commerce.

He told her, "One day, you're going to work for me." Within six months she was.

"I was immediately impressed by her," says Roper. "She has a real focus and a tenacity to get any job done. Then a certain passion kicks in. I hated to lose her, but I am not at all surprised by her success. I think she is one of the most amazing people -- male or female -- of her generation."

She would work for the chamber for two years, becoming its manager of special events. During the 60-hour workweeks, she spent her lunchtime taking accounting classes at Roosevelt. No longer devoting time to boxing, she was drawn to what had been a recreational diversion.

"I started riding motorcycles in high school when the rest of my friends started riding sport bikes. I would ride on the back with them. At some point they were getting good and more dangerous. That's when I thought I would like to start riding myself, and I pretty much rode every day. I basically taught myself how to ride."

This was another activity she kept from her parents.

"I got used to wearing full-face helmets immediately," she says. "Originally, safety wasn't the motivating factor. It was so that my parents wouldn't see me."

A couple of nasty falls persuaded her to seek professional instruction. At that time the only place to do so was through the free course offered by the Department of Transportation's Motorcycle Rider Program. It admitted 10,000 riders a year but still had a long waiting list. It took Lahalih a year to get in a class and get certification from the Motorcycle Safety Foundation, a non-profit organization funded by motorcycle manufacturers. She then took the course that certified her as an instructor.

"We were turning away so many people every time I taught class," she says. "That never sat well with me, and I started offering classes on the side on the weekends. The only problem with that is that I found out it was illegal. And so I decided to start my own school."

Because no one had ever done this, there ensued a nearly 2-year-long struggle to cut through red tape and overcome roadblocks posed by state regulations before she opened her school.

"I am not sure what drives me," she says.

An opinion comes from her brother: "There is a real stubborn streak to Sarah. She will never give up. She was young. I started my business when I was 21 and still in school. You have to overcome a lot of false impressions and misconceptions. That's what she had to do too, and that intensifies the maturing process."

While running her businesses, Lahalih has continued her education by attending such institutions as the Freddie Spencer High Performance Riding School, BMW Enduro Park off-road school and California Superbike School.

Last fall she was hired by Cape Fox Professional Services, a company based in Manassas, Va., that had been given a five-year, $52 million contract to provide an off-duty safety program to the Navy and Marine Corps based on the recommendations of the motorcycle safety foundation.

"The numbers of motorcycle-related deaths in the military are stunning and frightening," she says. Military officials reported last year that 25 Marines died in motorcycle accidents over a 12-month period, compared with 20 who were killed in action in Iraq.

And so she has been flying around the country -- "I am so fortunate to have a great staff and instructors at my school in Chicago," she says -- and teaching some older soldiers new tricks.

"When I walk in, they sink in their seats, fold their arms across their chests and get expressions that seem to say, 'I can't believe I'm going to spend time learning from this little girl,'" she says. "Most of them are longtime riders. Most of them think they are better riders than I could possibly be. But I am not intimidated. I have no ego and no insecurity when it comes to this. I have information and a skill set, and they realize it soon enough.

"I have never been disrespected in the dozens of classes I have conducted. Oh, there was this one guy who kept asking me to go surfing. It was kind of cute but, God, he was only 21."

Lahalih has no steady boyfriend. She dates but finds that many men resent her long hours or accomplishments. (The next will come in October, when she reaches one of her life's goals, to visit all seven continents, with a trip to Antarctica).

But she one day wants to have a family.

"I look at Kat [Rodriguez Ogren] and think maybe it is possible to have it all -- a great husband, kids, a business, respect in the profession," she says. "I just sort of fell into what I am doing now, into this life. Do I have a plan? My plan has always been to never have a plan. I have no regrets about missing out on, what ... staying out till 5 a.m., drinking shots? But I think I might like to have a little more balance now."

Rodriguez Ogren says, "Sarah recognized the important things at an early age. She has never lived irresponsibly. She wanted her own life and did not procrastinate. She is a few years younger than I am and so, yes, I think she will be able to have it all."